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      The Exvangelicals review: fine study of faith under fire in the age of Trump

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      Sarah McCammon’s new book about “exvangelicals” like herself is a powerful memoir of her complicated journey away from Christian fundamentalism. Because she experienced it from the inside, she is also able to give the rest of us one of the best explanations I have ever read of how so many Americans became part of the non-reality-based cult that remains so stubbornly addicted to the insanities of Donald Trump.Brought up by rigorous evangelicals equally opposed to abortion and in favor of corporal punishment of their children, McCammon grew up inside a religious bubble supposedly designed to protect everyone within it from the evils of a secular world.Now 43 and national political correspondent for NPR, she was born at the dawn of the Reagan administration, which also marked the beginning of the alliance between religious extremism and the Republican party.The number of Americans who identified as evangelical or born again peaked in 2004, when it reached 30%. McCammon’s parents, though, came of age at the height of the Vietnam war and the sexual revolution. Like millions of others who felt unhinged by the chaos, they cast aside the “love ethos” of their youth, replacing “drug culture and anti-war protests” with “praise choruses” and the teachings of religious reactionaries such as James Dobson.The McCammons took Dobson’s teachings very seriously, especially his book Dare to Discipline, which taught them to spank babies as young as 15 months and to use “a small switch or belt” which should be seen by the child as an “object of love rather than an instrument of punishment”.As the historian Kristin Kobes Du Mez has explained, McCammon’s generation grew up during the creation of “a massive industry of self-reinforcing Christian media and organizations” and a media network that functioned “less as a traditional soul-saving enterprise and more as a means by which evangelicals … maintained their own identity.” Or as DL Mayfield, another writer born into an evangelical family, put it: “Being born into white evangelicalism as marketers were figuring out how to package and sell Christian nationalism … was really bad timing.”The literal interpretation of the Bible McCammon grew up with of course required the rejection of evolution. Everything, including “our understanding of basic scientific facts” had to be “subordinated to this vision of scripture”. By pulling their children out of public schools, parents could guarantee that “they could graduate from high school without ever taking a course on evolution or sex ed” and then move “seamlessly to a four-year Christian college with the same philosophy”.View image in fullscreenEvolution had been invented by scientists so they could reject God’s authority and construct “a world … where they were free to pursue their sinful lusts and selfish desires. What other motive could the there be” for dismissing the story of Adam and Eve?The real-world consequences of this indoctrination include a Republican party blithely unconcerned with the effects of global warming. As Jocelyn Howard, an exvangelical interviewed by McCammon, observes: “When you’re taught that science is basically a fairytale … then why would you care if the world is burning around us … The world around us doesn’t matter, because this is all going to burn like in Revelations anyway.”By distancing so many evangelicals from mainstream thought, their leaders created “a fertile breeding ground for conspiracy theories that can be nearly impossible to eradicate”. As Ed Stetzer, an evangelical pastor and executive director of the Wheaton College Billy Graham Center told FiveThirtyEight: “People of faith believe there is a divine plan – that there are forces of good and forces of evil … QAnon is a train that runs on the tracks that religion has already put in place.”Part of the time, McCammon manages to remember her youth with humor, particularly in a passage describing a discussion of the meaning of “oral sex” with her mother, inspired by the release of Ken Starr’s report about Bill Clinton’s interactions with Monica Lewinsky, an intern at the White House.“I think,” said the author’s mother, “if you have Jesus, you don’t need oral sex.”McCammon can’t remember how she responded but she has been “telling that story for decades when people ask me to describe my childhood”.The first cracks in her evangelical faith began when she spent a semester as a Senate page and befriended a fellow page who was a Muslim.skip past newsletter promotionafter newsletter promotion“Do you believe that because I’m Muslim I’m going to hell?” he asked.“Suddenly,” McCammon writes, “everything that felt wrong about the belief system I had been told to promote crystalized in my mind. All she could muster in response to his question was, ‘I don’t know. I think it’s between you and god.’”By the time she graduated from college, McCammon “was exhausted from trying to get my brain to conform to the contours of the supposed truth I‘d been taught. Why did certain types of knowledge seem forbidden, and why were only our experts to be trusted?”Her solution was to choose a career in journalism: “I craved a space to ask questions about the way the world really was, and the freedom to take in new sources of information. Journalism required that: it honored the process of seeking truth and demanded the consideration of multiple points of view.”This book is an elegant testament to how well McCammon has learned her craft. The hopeful message she leaves us with is that her own journey is being replicated by millions of others in her generation, many finally convinced to abandon their faith because of the racism and xenophobia embraced by evangelicals’ newest and most unlikely savior: Trump.Since 2006, evangelical Protestants have experienced “the most precipitous drop in affiliation” among Americans, according to the Public Religion Research Institute, shrinking from 23% in 2006 to 14% in 2020. In November, we will learn if that is enough to keep democracy alive.
      The Exvangelicals is published in the US by St Martin’s Press More

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      Among the exvangelicals: Sarah McCammon on faith, Trump and leaving the churches behind

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      For Sarah McCammon, “it was really January 6, watching people go into the Capitol with signs that said ‘Jesus saves’ and crosses and Christian symbols” that made her finally decide to write about her evangelical upbringing and her decision to leave it behind.“I wanted to tell my story,” she says.As a national political correspondent for NPR, McCammon tells many stories. Her first book, The Exvangelicals, is not just a work of autobiography. It is also a deeply reported study of an accelerating movement – of younger Americans leaving white evangelical churches.McCammon grew up in the 1980s and 90s in Kansas City, Missouri, then went to Trinity College, an evangelical university in Deerfield, Illinois. Now, she chronicles the development of her own doubts about her religion, its social strictures and political positions, while reporting similar processes experienced by others.For many such “exvangelicals”, things began to come to a head in 2016, when Donald Trump seized the Republican presidential nomination with a harsh message of hatred and division – and evangelical support.McCammon says: “When I was hired by NPR to cover the presidential campaign, I found myself pretty quickly at the intersection of my professional life and my personal background, because I was assigned to the Republican primary. I was happy about that, because I kind of knew that world.It made sense. I figured I’d be covering Jeb Bush, his waltz to the nomination. But it didn’t turn out that way.“So much of the story of the Republican primary became about Donald Trump and white evangelicals. What were they going to do? How were they going to square evangelical teachings with his history and his character?”As McCammon watched, those evangelicals embraced a three-times married icon of greed, a man who boasted of sexually assaulting women while demonising migrants, Muslims and more.For McCammon, evangelical support for Trump was then and is now a matter of simple power politics – about how he offers a way to maintain a position under fire in a changing world – buttressed by the appeal of Trumpian “alternative facts” familiar to churches that have long denied the science of evolution, ignored the role of racism in American history and taken myriad other positions at odds with mainstream thought.View image in fullscreenMcCammon had “this whole connection to this world”, having grown up “in a very evangelical, very conservative family, very politically active”. But “in a lot of ways, I think I got into journalism to get away from some of that. I didn’t want to work in an ideological space, theological or political. I didn’t want to be an advocate, I felt very uncomfortable with the pressure to make everybody believe what I believed. And I did not even feel sure.”Nonetheless, as Trump tightened his grip, McCammon was drawn back in, becoming “fascinated because I was in my mid-30s, I had some distance from my childhood and I felt I knew what questions to ask and anticipated some debates that would come up.“So after 2016, I spent a few years reflecting on where the country was and what had happened: on the evangelical embrace of Trump. And as I thought more about it, I thought maybe there’s something I want to say about this. I wanted to tell my story.”As it turned out, a lot of former evangelicals of McCammon’s generation were telling their stories too.Like other modern social and political labels – Black Lives Matter and MeToo, for example – the term “exvangelicals” first came to prominence as a hashtag around 2016, the year the writer Blake Chastain launched a podcast under the name. Much of McCammon’s research for her book duly took place on social media, tracking down exvangelicals using Facebook, Twitter and Instagram to share and connect.But McCammon’s own story forms the spine of her book. Her parents remain in the church. She and her first husband married in the church. It wasn’t easy to sit down and write.“When I was finishing the draft, I sent [my parents] several key sections,” she says. “Frankly, the sections I thought would be hardest for them. I wanted to do that both as their daughter and as a journalist, because in journalism, we usually give people a chance to respond. And so, they didn’t want to be quoted.”In the finished book, McCammon’s parents are quoted, one striking example a frank exchange of messages with her mother about LGBTQ+ rights.“They’re not thrilled,” she says. “But I did take their feedback into account. They didn’t fundamentally dispute anything, factually …skip past newsletter promotionafter newsletter promotion“I hope it comes through in the book that this is not an attack on my parents. I talk about my childhood because I want to illustrate what it was like to grow up inside the evangelical milieu of that time. And based on my conversations with lots of other people, I don’t think my experiences are unique.”McCammon’s grandfather was surely close to unique: a military veteran and a neurosurgeon who had three children before coming out as gay. At first largely excluded from McCammon’s life, later a central influence, he died as McCammon was writing.She says: “I make him such a central character because he was a central part of my experience of realising that there was a bigger world out there – when he was one of the only non-evangelical or non-Christian people I had any regular contact with, growing up. For my family he was always a source of concern and consternation and worry and prayer but also he was an incredibly accomplished individual, and he was somebody I think my whole family admired and was just proud of – at the same time that we prayed for his soul.“And so that was a crack for me in everything that I was being told.”View image in fullscreenMcCammon still believes, though she does not “use a lot of labels”. Her husband is Jewish. Shaped by her Christian upbringing, she has “slowly opened up my mind, as I’ve gotten older”, through talking to her husband and to people in “the progressive Christian space”. She can “read the Bible when I want to”, and does.Asked how she thinks The Exvangelicals will be received, she says “there are kind of three audiences for this book.“For exvangelicals, or people who have wrestled with their religious background, whatever it may be, I hope that they will feel seen and validated, and feel like there’s some resonance with their story, because I think there is kind of a common experience, even though the details are different.“For those like my husband, who when I met him had very little connection to the evangelical world, and are maybe a little confused by it, or maddened or frustrated by it, I hope the book will provide some insight and maybe even empathy, [helping] to understand how people think, why they think the way they think, and also the fact that evangelicalism is a massive movement and within it there are lots of different people with lots of different experiences.“The most difficult one is evangelicals. I hope those who are still firmly entrenched in the movement will read it with an open mind, and maybe some empathy. I think there are a lot of boomer parents out there, not just mine, who are trying to figure out why their kids have gone astray.“And I don’t think being an exvangelical is ‘going astray’. I think it’s about really trying to live with integrity. In some ways, it’s like: ‘You taught us to seek the truth. And so it’s what a lot of us are doing.’”
      The Exvangelicals is published in the US by St Martin’s Press More

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      ‘Everything is possible’: a worrying new book explores the danger of disinformation

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      You might not have heard of Rosanne Boyland. She made the 10-hour drive from Kennesaw, Georgia, to Washington on 5 January 2021. The next day, the 34-year-old died after losing consciousness in the crush of a mob of Donald Trump supporters as it surged against US Capitol police. She would never have been there, her sister said later, “if it weren’t for all the misinformation”.The tragedy opens Barbara McQuade’s new book, Attack from Within: How Disinformation is Sabotaging America. The NBC News and MSNBC legal analyst explores how the deliberate spreading of lies disguised as truth has been weaponised to consolidate power in the hands of the few, undermine legal structures and drive voters such as Boyland. It is both cause and symptom of the US’s corrosive polarisation.A former national security prosecutor, McQuade has seen the threat of disinformation evolve from al-Qaida to Islamic State to cyber-attacks from Russia. Teaching at the University of Michigan Law School, where she is a professor, she had her students study special counsel Robert Mueller’s report on 2016 election interference by Russia.“I was fascinated by the details of accounts that were created by Russian operatives with names like Blacktivist or Heart of Texas posing as grassroots activists on the right or the left or various groups, and then taking very divisive stands on various issues just in an effort to sow discord,” McQuade, 59, says in an interview in the lobby of a Washington hotel.It was then Trump’s bogus “stop the steal” movement in 2020, based on the big lie of widespread voter fraud rejected in more than 60 lawsuits and by his own attorney general, that inspired her to write the book. It considers lessons learned ahead of a potential repeat in 2024 as the US braces for a Joe Biden v Trump rematch.“We will definitely get interference from foreign adversaries, including Russia and probably China, North Korea, maybe Iran, but there is a domestic part of this now where we are already hearing Donald Trump talk about how voting by mail is unreliable and laying the groundwork so that, if and when he loses, and there are more Democrats who have voted by mail than Republicans, he will have credibility.View image in fullscreen“He will say: ‘See, I won the election and then it all flipped for me. It was fraud.’ The same strategy that he used in in 2020. I don’t know if he’ll have new strategies but ‘stop the steal’ was a classic disinformation influence campaign based on no evidence whatsoever.”Trump commentary falls into categories. Some stop short of drawing comparisons with Adolf Hitler, perhaps wary of Godwin’s law, which holds that as an online discussion grows longer, the probability of a comparison involving Nazis or Hitler approaches. Others dive in, arguing that some aspects of Trump’s authoritarianism, nativism and charisma do evoke the Nazi tyrant in enlightening ways.McQuade goes there with an “authoritarian playbook” charting a brief history of disinformation from Hitler and Benito Mussolini to Jair Bolsonaro and Trump and noting the tactics: demonising the other, seducing with nostalgia, silencing critics, muzzling the media, condemning the courts and stoking violence.She elaborates: “Hitler wrote in Mein Kampf that there are two things that are essential to effective propaganda. One was a very simple repeatable message because when people hear a message repeated again and again – and start hearing it from different sources – they begin to believe it to be true.“The other is that the bigger the lie, the more likely it is to be believed. All of us are guilty of white lies from time to time that we might say out of kindness. My sister might say your hair looks fine when she means anything but, or my husband might say to me, no, dear, that dress doesn’t make you look fat.“They’re saying these things out of kindness, even though they might be technically lying. As Hitler wrote in Mein Kampf, most people would not ever imagine that anyone could have the audacity to lie about something that is so significant – he was talking about the role of Jewish people in society, for example.“But here the big lie for Trump was that the election has been stolen because people say: ‘How could you possibly pull that off? It’s so ridiculous.’ That’s part of what gives it its credibility and he knows that so I worry we’re going to begin to hear that again, and there are a significant number of Americans who still believe that the 2020 election was stolen. There will always be people who are manipulated by those strategies.”Now the history of the January 6 insurrection itself is being rewritten, with the rioters recast as “patriots” and, if tried and imprisoned, as “hostages” whom Trump is promising to pardon if elected. Opinion polls show that more than a third of Americans believe that Biden’s election was illegitimate; Republicans are more sympathetic to the US Capitol rioters now than they were in 2021.McQuade says with some dismay: “They assaulted people, they brought weapons, they broke windows, they spread faeces on the walls of the temple of democracy, they carried Confederate flags in there. Now to refer to it as legitimate political discourse or ordinary tourist activity, and then to refer to people who have been arrested, charged and imprisoned for their crimes as hostages, is absolutely a brand of disinformation. I’m curious to see how many people will continue to fall for that in this election.”View image in fullscreenTrump svengali Steve Bannon, an arch election denier and vaccine conspiracy theorist, once memorably declared that the real opposition was the media and the way to deal with them was to “flood the zone with shit”. This brings to mind the Russian autocrat Vladimir Putin. McQuade cites the Russian author and journalist Peter Pomerantsev on “the fog of unknowability”.She explains: “Everything is possible and nothing matters, and so everything’s PR because people begin to doubt the very existence of truth. One day Putin might say the missiles were shot by Ukraine; the next day the missiles were shot by Russia; the next day the missiles were shot by Nato.“People don’t know what to think and consistency doesn’t matter. In fact, inconsistency is part of the point, because first people become angry and then they become cynical and then finally they become numb and disengaged from politics altogether and so that’s a very dangerous place for democracy.“The other thing that people think in Russia is that truth is for suckers: you should just get what you can while you can and everybody is corrupt, which is one of the things that causes Donald Trump to constantly be suggesting that the Bidens are corrupt – if everybody is corrupt, then it gives you permission to overlook Donald Trump’s corruption, right?“‘Well, they’re all corrupt. Who knows what to believe? All these investigations are themselves weaponised and corrupt so I might as well look for someone who is strong, who will advance my values despite all of his corruption.’ This normalisation of corruption is something that is part of it all as well.”How has it come to this? McQuade, who was born in Detroit and lives Ann Arbor, Michigan, identifies three central causes. First, the delivery mechanism of disinformation has changed. For centuries, the deceiver had to rely on word of mouth or leaflets or planting a false story, perhaps in a foreign newspaper, in the hope that someone would pick it up and pass it on. Now someone can spread a lie at the push of a button.“Social media is a wonderful tool and can connect us to people all over the world in wonderful ways, but can also be used as a weapon when people want to and so it has been a really efficient vehicle for delivering disinformation,” says the author. “They’re completely unaccountable and we have ceded all of our power on social media to a handful of young bro billionaires, whose interest, of course, is in their own profits, not in the social good.”Second, we are living through the worst political divisions in America since the 1861-1865 civil war. McQuade reckons it began with the combative, attention-grabbing Republican Newt Gingrich in the 1990s, and has grown as parties concentrate on turning out their bases rather than finding common ground. With elections framed as an existential struggle between good and evil, voters demand political purity. “If my tribe says X then I say X too, even if I don’t believe X to be true.”Third, there is anxiety about a changing world: the climate crisis, refugees and border security, economic shifts with potential job losses. It is fertile soil for demagogues who promise that they alone can fix it. “We have leaders who want to use that to stoke fear because they perceive that that will be in their own political interest to attract those voters who are concerned about those changes and attract them into their own fold.“It’s a combination of those three things that Donald Trump has exploited in this country like no one we’ve ever seen. I don’t think that he’s necessarily a political genius, but I do think he’s a conman and a marketing genius who knows how to sell things. He’s a huckster and he has taken advantage of this moment for personal and political gain.”The huckster’s rise nearly a decade ago caught the media off guard. The old and laudable rules of balance, impartiality and not editorialising no longer seemed to work when one candidate was so blatantly mendacious. The New York Times newspaper broke the seal in 2016 with the headline: Trump Gives Up a Lie but Refuses to Repent. But as another election looms, McQuade worries that journalists have still not figured out how to cover him.“That which is novel is always newsworthy, that which is controversial is always newsworthy, and so they present those things. But in an effort to present both sides of a story and in a tradition of not calling people liars, they have allowed Donald Trump and his supporters to manipulate them and play them. They’ll just say he made a statement that is not backed up by evidence; say he’s lying! You gotta say it out loud.”View image in fullscreenBut Attack from Within is not a letter of surrender or obituary of America. McQuade offers solutions for countering disinformation and maintaining the rule of law, such as making domestic terrorism a federal crime, reviving local journalism, criminalising doxxing (the act of revealing identifying information about someone online) and considering a ban on online anonymous accounts.The former US attorney for the eastern district of Michigan urges politicians to get ahead of the curve of artificial intelligence. “I hope that our Congress can do something which we failed to do with social media, which is get ahead of it, because if it can put things in place before they create havoc, it’s much easier than trying to react after the fact.”Individual citizens, she says, can gain skills be critical consumers of social media. “We can educate ourselves and take responsibility by doing things like, when we read an article, don’t rely just on the headline; we should actually read the article before we forward it to someone else.“We should look for second sources of a story; if there’s an outrageous story, someone else will be reporting it. If there is data in a story, we should look at that data. How big was the sample set? Was it a sample of three or a sample of 3m? That makes a difference. Were the results of this study a causation or just coincidence with an outcome? We need to do that.”McQuade also calls for increasing media literacy in schools and a revival of teaching civics rather than focusing on test scores. “Civics education is important for all of us, because when someone explains to you how the separation of powers works and how the three branches of government work, it is impossible to believe that a president could be immune from prosecution. We all need that education.”
      Attack from Within is out now More

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      Book bans in US schools and libraries surged to record highs in 2023

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      More books were banned in 2023 in US schools and libraries than any other year for which records have been kept, the American Library Association (ALA) reported on Thursday.Many of the books were targeted because they related to issues of LGBTQ+ communities or race, though the list was broad, including commonly taught novels such as Lord of the Flies and To Kill a Mockingbird.The group documented 4,240 unique book titles targeted for censorship in 2023, which was more than the previous two years combined: 2,571 in 2022 and 1,651 in 2021. There was a 65% spike in 2023 over 2022.It also recorded 1,247 documented demands to ban various library books, teaching materials, and other resources last year.Emily Drabinski, the ALA president, called book bans “an attack on our freedom to read”.“The books being targeted again focus on LGBTQ+ and people of color,” she said.“Our communities and our country are stronger because of diversity. Libraries that reflect their communities’ diversity promote learning and empathy that some people want to hide or eliminate.”The number of titles targeted for censorship also increased. The amount rose by 92% in public libraries and 11% at schools.ALA said it will release the list of most commonly targeted books in April but some of the most challenged book titles in 2022 were Gender Queer: A Memoir by Maia Kobabe, All Boys Aren’t Blue by George M Johnson, The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison, and The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky.The book ban movement has grown in recent years across the US, particularly in Republican-led states, as religious-political activism gains strength.Seventeen states saw attempts to ban more than 100 books: Colorado, Connecticut, Florida, Idaho, Illinois, Iowa, Kentucky, Maryland, Missouri, North Carolina, Ohio, Pennsylvania, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Virginia and Wisconsin.“Libraries are vital institutions to each and every community in this country, and library professionals, who have dedicated their lives to protecting our right to read, are facing threats to their employment and well-being,” Drabinski said. More

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      The downwinders: New Mexicans sickened by atomic bomb testing fight for compensation

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      Congresswoman Teresa Leger Fernández watched Oppenheimer – a top winner at Sunday’s Academy Awards and Christopher Nolan’s treatment on the physicist who guided testing of the first atomic bomb at Los Alamos, New Mexico – months ago.And soon after the scene where Cillian Murphy, as J Robert Oppenheimer, peered through safety goggles in a fortified shed at the huge mushroom cloud, the New Mexico Democrat realized “the untold story” lay on the cutting room floor.“We see nothing on the impact the bomb had on people living in northern New Mexico,” Fernández said. “There’s no way [Manhattan Project physicists] could not have been aware of the radiation’s impact on the communities downwind of the Trinity bomb site.”As a 17th-generation descendant of Mexicans who became New Mexicans, Fernández, 65, speaks of “people living off the land, hanging their clothes, coated with [radioactive] ash, chickens picking in the yard, the lingering effects of what fell onto the ground and crops and was absorbed by animals and people” – for decades to come after the testing of the bomb.Fernández was awakened to the vast reach of the radiation after winning her congressional seat in 2020, meeting constituents and befriending Tina Cordova, the leader of “downwinders” – survivors and descendants of multigenerational illnesses discovered well after the 1945 Trinity bomb.View image in fullscreenCordova, who earned a master’s degree in biology before becoming the owner of an Albuquerque roofing company, is a survivor of thyroid cancer. Her 24-year-old niece has also grappled with the same condition – and is a fifth-generation family member afflicted with one form of cancer or another.Cordova is the protagonist of Lois Lipman’s award-winning documentary, First We Bombed New Mexico, which also played a role in Fernández’s grasp of bomb-related injustices.Cordova was not yet born when radioactive ash settled across a vast area of the state’s western desert. But her father, Anastacio Cordova, was four at the time, living in Tularosa, a farming village 45 miles from the bomb site. The genetic line of cancers began with him.In sharing the details of her family’s plight, Cordova said: “I sensed a level of sadness in [Fernández]. She said she had lost family members but didn’t go into detail.”A non-smoker, Anastacio had part of his tongue removed at 61, before treatment for the spread of cancer necessitating “high levels of radiation in his head and neck”, Cordova said.“All his teeth had to be extracted,” she said. “Then he got prostate cancer. Eight years after the primary oral cancer he had a second primary lesion on his tongue. The doctor said they could remove the tumor but he couldn’t have any more radiation because in the first bout with cancer he had been treated with the maximum amount of radiation.”Cordova’s father died in 2013 after nine years of illness and repeat trips to Houston’s MD Anderson cancer center.Listening to the stories of Cordova and other downwinders indeed had resonance for Fernández, the congresswoman said. Her mother came from Colonias, a village in Guadalupe county “within the concentric circles of people exposed to radiation”.“I am not a downwinder,” Fernández said. “I will not be a claimant” – if pending legislation for survivors, which she has co-sponsored, passes Congress. “These people are part of who I am.“My maternal grandmother died of leukemia blood cancer. My mother, a non-smoker, died of lung cancer. Both were in their 70s.”Her maternal grandfather also died of cancer.She made it a point to say that there was no speculation among her relatives at the time that their illnesses stemmed from the nuclear bomb in New Mexico. But she made clear that their pasts – combined with that of people like Cordova – made her realize “we’ve never as a nation apologized to the people of New Mexico”.And Fernández, a graduate of Yale and Stanford law school who worked as a public interest attorney before Congress, is working to fix that.Her efforts come in the form of fighting for passage of a bill first filed by Ben Ray Lujan, Fernandez’s congressional predecessor who was elected to the US Senate in 2020. The now expanded legislative proposal seeks financial compensation – reparations – for downwinders, a category that also extends to Nevadans afflicted from later nuclear testing, victims of uranium pollution in Utah and Missouri, and workers from several other states exposed to radiation from the nuclear testing infrastructure, long cloaked in secrecy.View image in fullscreenFernández is quick to invoke a surreal scene from First We Bombed New Mexico to discuss the legislation: “Little girls dancing around in the ash, tasting it on their tongues, thinking it was summer snow” – in the early aftermath of the bomb testing.But it’s now more than just the film that is catalyzing support for providing downwinders with long-due compensation after losing so many loved ones to nuclear fallout disease patterns.The compensation bill championed by Lujan in the Senate and Fernández in the House has earned backing across the political aisle from Missouri’s far-right US senator Josh Hawley.Hawley joined Lujan and Fernández’s ranks last summer after an investigation by the Missouri Independent, MuckRock and the Associated Press uncovered rare cancers as well as autoimmune disorders among St Louis workers who processed uranium used in early stages of the Manhattan Project at the heart of Oppenheimer. There was radioactive waste found in lakes and creeks and groundwater pollution at sites in St Louis county yet to be cleaned.The bill co-sponsored by Hawley – who gave a clenched fist salute to supporters of former president Donald Trump before they staged the January 6 Capitol attack – is likely one of the few political issues on which the Missouri Republican is likely to agree with the Joe Biden White House.View image in fullscreenBiden, too, endorsed the compensation bill which on Thursday passed the Senate 69-31 with a broad bipartisan vote. The measure now goes to the House.Fernández stressed the coalition is “not questioning the US’s decision to pursue the bomb and nuclear power as part of national security” to end the second world war. But, she said: “We need for victims of that national priority to receive compensation for what they and their families suffered.”A sequence in First We Bombed New Mexico poignantly conveys that point.The former US senator Tom Udall tells Tina Cordova’s group how moved he was to have heard their stories. The film cuts to grainy footage of Tom’s father, Steward Udall, as the US’s secretary of the interior in the 1960s. With a catch in the throat, the elder Udall shows outrage about disease-stricken uranium miners in Utah – then says cynically: “No matter how much they have lied or what harm they may have done, you cannot sue the government.“As one Atomic Energy Commission official I knew in the [early 1960s] said, ‘Well, if we admit now that we have not told them the truth, they won’t believe anything we said.’”First We Bombed New Mexico has a private screening for members of Congress. It will be shown at 7pm on 26 March at the Environmental film festival on the American University’s campus in Washington, with Cordova and Lipman taking questions. More

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      The Lede review: Calvin Trillin on the golden age of American reporting

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      For decades, Calvin Trillin has been one the most celebrated journalists in New York. This splendid collection of his pieces is filled with reminders of what makes him special: he is equally good at the serious stuff and “pieces meant to amuse”.The press is the subject that knits these stories together. It occurred to Trillin that these articles “amounted to a picture from multiple angles of what the press has been like” since he entered the game. Many are from the 1960s, 70s and 80s. They provide the flavor of the glory days of print journalism, when newsstands were stuffed with magazines and papers written by giants like Murray Kempton, Molly Ivins and Edna Buchanan – and giants in their own minds, like RW Apple Jr – each of whom gets their due here, in Trillin’s 32nd book.His title, The Lede, is the coin of the realm for every old-fashioned scribbler. Trillin sets the tone on page four:
      A veterinarian prescribed antibiotics Monday for a camel that lives behind an Iberville Parish truck stop after a Florida woman told law officers that she bit the 600-pound animal’s genitalia after it sat on her when she and her husband entered its enclosure to retrieve their deaf dog.
      Every good lede leaves the reader with a certain amount of mystery. Trillin points to this one: “While the veterinarian was caring for the camel, was anyone attending to that Florida woman?”The book is replete with the best lines of other journalists but Trillin’s phrases are the funniest, like the one he wrote after Time Warner announced that the magazine that gave the company half its name was to be “spun off – a phrase that to me has always conjured up a business enterprise caught in the final cycle of a giant washing machine, with desks and office machines flying through the air and middle-management types being blown away, head over heels, like so many tumbleweeds”.Or this one, describing Richard Nixon’s difficulties “with trying to buy an apartment in East Side co-ops that persist in treating him as if he were Jewish or a tap dancer”.Time is one of the places Trillin has labored. In the 60s, all its writers were men and all the researchers were women. For one of scores of beguiling details, Trillin quotes the biography of one Time founder, Briton Hadden, which asserted that he designed the system with the idea that “putting a male writer and a female researcher together in a quasi-adversarial situation would create a sexual dynamic that could lend energy to the process”.Trillin wrote a much-loved novel, Floater, about his Time experiences. It describes one of the researcher’s duties as finding “some reason why any sentence suspected of being even remotely graceful must be changed in a way that makes it boring or awkward”. (When I was a reporter at the New York Times its copy editors had exactly the same habit, which was a big reason I quit.)RW Apple Jr was a national political reporter, a Vietnam correspondent and London bureau chief for the Times, equally famous for his scoops and the size of his expense account. Trillin’s profile begins with the book that made Apple famous, Gay Talese’s portrait of the Times, The Kingdom and the Power. Talese reported that Apple boasted that he personally killed a few Vietcong, which “led an older reporter to say, ‘Women and children, I presume.’”Trillin was chairman of the Yale Daily News and Apple chairman of the Daily Princetonian when they met, in 1956. Apple was kicked out of Princeton a second time “after he began to spend every waking hour” at the paper. “By his standards, I have occasionally acknowledged to him, I failed to throw myself wholeheartedly into the job of running a college newspaper,” Trillin wrote. “I graduated.”The book celebrates Kempton and Ivins, two of my favorite journalists, more wholeheartedly.Kempton’s extraordinary erudition made colleagues “look forward to a courtroom recess” when he “might muse on some human characteristic that somehow linked, say, Montaigne and Bessie Smith and [New York crime boss] Frank Costello”. Kempton “was uncanny in his ability to find some way in which almost anyone who had been smitten was morally superior to those who had done the smiting”.Ivins was celebrated for skewering Texas politicians, but here Trillin remembers Paul Krugman’s description of her prescience after she died in 2007. Krugman recalled that when most reporters swallowed the Bush administration’s fantasy that American invaders of Iraq would be greeted as liberators, Ivins identified the real danger: “The problem is what happens after we win. The country is 20 percent Kurd, 20 percent Sunni and 60 percent Shiite. Can you say, ‘Horrible three-way civil war’?’”skip past newsletter promotionafter newsletter promotionTrillin has plenty of serious things to say about reporting, including the dangers faced by journalists who mistake themselves for the people they’re covering. “You could argue that reporters, no matter how much money they make, forget at their peril that they are essentially cabin-class people traveling first class on an upgrade,” he writes. “When they acquire protective feelings toward the important people they enjoy seeing socially, they tend to get scooped.”Like many great reporters, Trillin’s principles were forged in the civil rights movement, which he covered for Time. This collection ends with a tremendous recollection of those years – and the limited relevance of objectivity in the coverage of that story.“I didn’t pretend that we were covering a struggle in which all sides – the side that thought, for instance, that all American citizens had the right to vote and the side that thought that people who acted on such a belief should have their homes burned down – had an equally compelling case to make,” Trillin writes.As America barrels towards a showdown between one party committed to democracy and another addled by racism and xenophobia, the usefulness of objectivity in an age like this is becoming more questionable every day.
      The Lede is published in the US by Random House More

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      in US Politics

      The nepo baby who made good: Rob Reiner on Trump, family – and his brilliant, beloved movies

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      Where to even start preparing for a Rob Reiner interview? You could rewatch his classic films, of course, namely that phenomenal eight-year streak that started with This Is Spinal Tap in 1984 and blazed through The Sure Thing, Stand By Me, The Princess Bride, When Harry Met Sally, Misery and A Few Good Men. But even that is barely scratching the surface of a career that first got going in the late 1960s. What about his years as a household name in 70s sitcoms, or his famous comic actor father, Carl, or his unique childhood, in which Mel Brooks and other entertainment luminaries would be frequent guests in the house? And what about the political activism that saw him play important roles in overturning the same-sex marriage ban in California and funnelling higher taxes on cigarettes into programmes for young children and prenatal care?And, of course, what about the stuff he’s still making, because at 76 Reiner is showing no signs of slowing down. There’s a Spinal Tap sequel in the works, not to mention the reason he’s speaking to me today: a documentary about the rise of Christian nationalism in America. God and Country is chilling but vital viewing, dissecting a movement that has infiltrated American politics and the Republican party to such a degree that Reiner believes it could soon bring about the end of democracy in the US – and potentially the world. Does he really mean that?“Yes,” he says without a pause when we connect over a video link from New Orleans. “The question at this election is: do we want to continue 249 years of self-rule and American democracy? Or do we want to turn it over to somebody like Donald Trump who has said that he wants to destroy the constitution, go after his political enemies and turn America into an autocracy? We see autocracy making its move around the world. And so if we crumble, there’s a danger that democracy crumbles around the world.”View image in fullscreenGod and Country covers how the Christian nationalist movement began to gain traction in the 1970s when it latched on to abortion as a focal issue. Back then, evangelicals were not especially partisan about the supreme court’s landmark 1973 Roe v Wade ruling, still largely believing in the separation of church and state enshrined within the US constitution. But through huge funding and smart organisation, abortion was successfully turned into a key religious issue, and the idea began to take shape that democracy itself was an obstacle to God’s plans. In the documentary we see the effects of this: churches turned into partisan political cells, preachers inciting hatred against Democrats, and even tales of pastors carrying guns to their sermons. This brewing violence reached its zenith on 6 January 2021, when supporters of Donald Trump stormed the Capitol building in Washington DC.“And the foundation for it all was Christian nationalism,” says Reiner, “because finally they had found somebody like Donald Trump who they could funnel their ideas through.”The irony of all this, of course, is that Trump is the least Christian guy you could ever expect to meet. “I think he can probably spell the word ‘bible’,” agrees Reiner. “I don’t think he’s ever read it and I don’t think he has any idea what’s in it. But they excuse all that by saying God works in mysterious ways, and that he sent us this flawed vessel by which we can achieve the goals that we want to achieve.”Reiner was a keen Biden supporter in 2020, and despite the criticism around the incumbent president’s age – he will be weeks away from turning 82 when November swings around – this support hasn’t wavered.“Look, he’s old!” says Reiner, who despite his palpable anger still delivers his rants with comedic zeal, as if the world has gone mad and he’s the last sane person standing. “But you have one guy who stumbles around, whatever. And another guy who’s a criminal, basically lies every minute of his life, has been indicted 91 times!”View image in fullscreenReiner’s hatred of Trump was shared by his father, who had a burning desire to live long enough to see him defeated in 2020. As it happened, Carl died a few months before the election, aged 98. “The man he wanted ended up winning,” says Reiner. “What I don’t think he would have ever believed is that Trump would come back again. It’s like a zombie or a cockroach.”Liberal politics was always at the forefront of the Reiner household. In the 1950s, the FBI came to their house to ask Carl if he knew any members of the Communist party. “He said: ‘I probably do, but if I did I wouldn’t tell you.’” Meanwhile, his mum, the actor and singer Estelle Reiner (who died in 2008), was an organiser of Another Mother for Peace, a group opposed to the Vietnam war. “You know how people talk about remembering where they were when Kennedy died? Well, I remember where I was when [civil rights activist] Medgar Evers died [in June 1963], because my parents were very active in the civil rights movement.”Their influence on him is clear: Reiner went on to make 1996’s Ghosts of Mississippi, a movie about the trial of Evers’s killer. Of course, these days, with his gilded roots, Reiner would have faced accusations of being a “nepo baby”, which seems a funny thing to level at a 76-year-old man, but he takes it well.“If you’re a nepo baby, doors will open,” he says. “But you have to deliver. If you don’t deliver, the door will close just as fast as it opened.”View image in fullscreenReiner says his kids are dealing with it now. “My son is 32 and my daughter’s 26. They both want careers, they’re both talented. Should I lean into it? Should I back away from it? They’re confused. I said, once they find their own path, it won’t matter. I was very conscious when I was carrying out my career that I didn’t rely on [my dad]. I didn’t ask him for money, and if you know in your heart that what you’re doing is true, you can block out all that stuff.”Reiner often speaks warmly about his relationship with his dad, but although it was always loving, it wasn’t always easy. I remark on how central characters in Reiner’s films often wrestle with such relationships – Tom Cruise’s Lt Daniel Kaffee in A Few Good Men was tormented by the powerful reputation of his father; Stand By Me’s Gordie felt ignored and misunderstood by his. He nods. “I loved my father and he loved me,” he says, “but as a kid growing up, I don’t think he understood me. I was odd to him and I don’t think he quite got me. And so that comes out in those films, particularly in Stand By Me.”When Reiner was eight, the late family friend and legendary sitcom writer Norman Lear told Carl how funny his son was, to which Carl apparently replied: “That kid? I don’t know. He’s a sullen child.” Another actor, Martin Landau, told Rob that Carl had once confided in him: “Robbie wants to be an actor, and I just don’t know if he can do it.” Carl must have meant what he said because when Rob went for the lead role in his father’s semi-autobiographical 1967 film Enter Laughing, Carl cast someone else. “He turned me down. I was 19 at that time, it was a tough road.”It was only after seeing a 19-year-old Rob direct Jean-Paul Sartre’s existentialist play No Exit that Carl realised his son was on the right path. “The next day he told me in the back yard, ‘I’m not worried about you.’ So clearly, before that, he was worried!”View image in fullscreenJust like his father, it seems unlikely Reiner will stop working anytime soon. The reason he’s in New Orleans today is because he’s about to start filming the Spinal Tap sequel. Forty years on from volumes that go up to 11, none-more-black albums and that minuscule Stonehenge, the new movie intends to capture the band as they reform to play a farewell concert at New Orleans’ Lakefront Arena – that is, if they can get over the fact that they are no longer on speaking terms.Reiner was an unknown entity as a director when the original came out – audiences didn’t always spot the satire at first and wondered why he’d made a full-length movie about a terrible band with no fans – but this time will be different, with Paul McCartney, Elton John and Garth Brooks among the knowing guest stars signed up to appear. Following up a cult classic is a risky business and Reiner admits that everyone is feeling the pressure.“It’s nerve-racking,” he says. “People would always come up to us and say, come on, you should do another one. We never wanted to do it, but we came up with an idea we think works. Hopefully, it’ll be funny. Because, boy, is it a high bar.”View image in fullscreenAs with the original, the dialogue will all be improvised – but surely he’s not going to throw Sir Paul into the lion’s den of improv?“Yes I am!” he beams. “I told him, just don’t worry about it, you just talk and, whatever happens, we go on for ever. I’m not going to use the whole thing, just whatever the thing is that works.”Tap’s influence is all over pop culture these days. Reiner recalls a fundraising party in which Elon Musk drove in with his first electric car, invited him to sit inside and turned the radio’s volume switch up to its maximum level – which was 11. “That was a good thing he did,” smiles Reiner. “He’s done some other things I’m not so thrilled about.”Despite the many years he’s spent working on other projects, Reiner has no problem sharing anecdotes about the films he made decades ago. Like how the unbearable tension of Misery was even worse on the actual set. “You have Jimmy Caan, who is a very physical guy – a baseball player, he rode in the rodeo – and he had to be in bed all the time! And there was Kathy Bates playing Annie Wilkes, a stage-trained actor who wanted more and more rehearsals, while Jimmy wanted to do no rehearsals! When we filmed the scene where he unlocks the door with the hairpin and moves with his wheelchair into the hallway … well, even though we had moved just a few feet, it was like kids being let out on recess.”He’s delighted by how many people love his movies, but he says he doesn’t take the praise or criticism too seriously. At a cocktail party once, the former supreme court justice Anthony Kennedy once came up to him and said: “All courtroom dramas are terrible, awful … apart from A Few Good Men … and [1992 Joe Pesci comedy] My Cousin Vinny!’” He laughs at this. “He says that then lumps it in with My Cousin Vinny, so it doesn’t matter what other people think!”View image in fullscreenReiner can’t pinpoint any reason why his films have stood the test of time. But he especially loves the reactions he gets to The Princess Bride, his revisionist fairytale from 1987. “People come up and say: ‘I saw it when I was six, and now I show it to my kid.’ That makes me feel good.”Like Spinal Tap, that film was another slow burner, but Reiner is hoping that God and Country will make a more immediate impact. “We need to reach as many people as we can before the election,” he says. But even if he can, does he really think evangelicals are likely to engage with it?“It’s not for the hardcore,” Reiner accepts. “But we’re hoping to reach other Christians who might have been drawn into this unwittingly. That’s why we talk to some very conservative Christian thinkers in the documentary [such as the preacher and theologian Russell D Moore], very devout people, who are asking: are these really the teachings of Jesus? A lot of them see Christian nationalism as a threat to Christianity.”All Reiner wants is for those watching to think of the none-more-Christian phrase – Do unto others as you would have them do unto you – and ask themselves if they’re truly living up to it? “Because, as my father used to say: follow that, and you don’t even need the Ten Commandments. That covers everything.” More

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      in UK Politics

      Richard Madeley clashes with Tory minister over Lee Anderson’s comments

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      Richard Madeley accused Transport Secretary Mark Harper of not answering a “simple” question on whether Lee Anderson’s comments about London Mayor Sadiq Khan were Islamophobic in a heated exchange on Good Morning Britain on Monday (26 February).Mr Anderson had the Conservative whip removed over the weekend after he claimed that “Islamists” have “got control” of the London mayor.Mr Madeley asked Mr Harper several times if Mr Anderson’s claims were Islamophobic, but the MP would not give a straight answer.Mr Madeley asked: “Was it Islamophobic, straight answer, yes or no?“I am giving you an opportunity to answer a straight question.“Would you just answer?” More